


The Daughter of the Last Son

by MoonCrown



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabbles, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Hurt and comfort, I Don't Even Know, Lore - Freeform, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Oath of Fëanor, Slow Burn, The Noldor, Tolkien Legendarium, somewhat coming of age I suppose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5378552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonCrown/pseuds/MoonCrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A feeling of dread and doom had followed her steps for as long as she could remember. Perhaps not very surprising considering the fate of most in her bloodline, but what can you do.</p><p>Celebrimbor had a daughter and she is not a happy girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daughter of the Last Son

The deep sound of the great iron door closing echoed off the walls for several seconds before granting her silence. Grey marble remained pleasant under her feet though slightly warmer than outside, as was the air. It had to be the winds, she mused. Even though the hallway had four high glassed windows it kept the nightly breeze well outside. The moonlight, however, was more than welcome through.

With even steps she wandered unhurriedly, breaking moonbeams as she passed the windows. Soon she reached the high open archway at the end of the short hallway and entered a great round hall.

Once she would have marveled at the sight.

Along the walls, each in separate archways, there stood eight lifelike statues. A chill traveled up her back but she was determined to ignore them. Thankfully the room’s obviously exceptional architecture made it quite possible. It was a star-shaped dome and in it small windows that followed the shape in several layers; allowing moonlight and starlight to fall on nearly every surface in the hall, revealing its hidden treasure – _ithildin._

The starmoon glowed brightly at the touch of the soft light and while the dome itself had the most intricate patterns that surely would have left her breathless had she been someone else. Instead her eyes fastened at the floor, and the all too familiar sigil that covered the entirety of it: A burning star in a circle engulfed by a square –The sigil of the House of Fëanor.

Turmoil erupted from deep within her, scorching her insides. It was impossible to define what exactly it was _, (fear, sorrow, disappointment, shame, wonder, happiness, confusion,)_ but she stubbornly settled for anger. Ire and wrath were simple feelings; they blamed others and let her be in peace, or at least an illusion of it.

With newfound resolve she gripped her satchel tighter and marched across the hall, making a point to step directly on the ithildin lines. It was childish, but she still relished in the surge of satisfaction that it brought.

Pushing open the next pair of grand iron doors fresh air once again filled her lungs and the sound of running water graced her ears. It reminded her of Rivendell in some ways, she thought, though it was hardly surprising. This, too, had once been a homely house built by noldor elves, but unlike Rivendell in its new lively glory, this home left a foul taste in her mouth. The rooms were empty, courtyards dead and gardens overgrown. It told stories of a time of grace and glory, but was now only further proof of her family’s failures and doom.

Holding back a sigh, and in extension her despair, she stood still for a moment to gather herself. Once she had scornfully sworn never to walk the floors of her ancestors, but need and desperation had no consideration for such petty vows. For a few seconds she was at total loss what to do.

 _‘I just need to find a corner I may_ somehow _live in’,_ she decided, ‘ _father said-‘_

Her heart clenched painfully.

_A mangled body flashed before her eyes._

“The quarter furthest to the northeast, with view towards Alqualondë,” she repeated, letting her own voice snap her back to reality. Her mood fouled further when she realized the whole compound was built towards the east; it might take a while to find it. Big places like these should have signs for direction, was her sullen thoughts.

Then her eyes caught an interesting symbol on the far east corner of courtyard. If she hadn’t detested her natal great grandfather and his sons so much she probably would have smiled appreciative at the sigil above the arch, possibly marking way to Curufin’s housings, but as it were she only felt a gush of irritation. She wanted to be able to complain that they were egotistic for slapping their sigils everywhere and anytime they got the chance, however that was only her bias talking. Honestly it was pretty smart.

Brooding slightly the last living child of the house of Fëanor made for her grandfather’s wing.

Her heart grew heavier with every step. This was how her story ended, she thought morosely. All alone in Tirion in a great house as dusty and empty as her heart and life. On the good side, at least none of her actions had caused some horrifying problems for the world’s population to suffer for. Her family was rather famed for it, after all.

* * *

 

In the halls of Mandos, Míriel Þerindë eagerly started on a new pattern, singing softly. A brand new history had just begun for the youngest of Finwë’s house, and for the first time in _millennia_ Míriel felt _hopeful._

Vairë watched her from a distance and could only pray that her elven ward would not have to weave yet another tragedy into the tapestry.

Only time will tell.


End file.
